


see him move through smoke and mirrors

by Steerpike13713



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Episode: s04e10 Our Man Bashir, Holodecks/Holosuites, Jealousy, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 02:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11198478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steerpike13713/pseuds/Steerpike13713
Summary: “Garak?” he asked, “What is it-?”Garak’s expression was unreadable. “Tell me, doctor,” he said pleasantly, “Just how many of this game’s romantic options were in some way based on me?”(AU of Our Man Bashir)





	see him move through smoke and mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> For a tumblr prompt: 'AU where there is no holosuite malfunction to save Bashir from Garak finding out that literally every love-interest in the game is modelled on him?'  
> I do tend to believe that Julian shooting Garak in Our Man Bashir is actually pretty crucial to how their relationship evolved and a big part of why I think it could actually work in the long term. Something similar will probably need to happen later on in this 'verse, but that is none of my business, so please enjoy this happy, fluffy bit of silliness for what it is.  
> Zapiarty has drawn some very lovely fanart for me on tumblr, which can be found [here](http://zapiarty.tumblr.com/post/161675187010/party-dont-start-til-i-walk-in-meet-colonel) and [here](http://zapiarty.tumblr.com/post/161731114505/sasha-and-julian-have-a-chat-bar-side-whereas).  
> Title is from the Goldeneye theme, on the basis that...it's Bond and has homoerotic undertones considered with the plot of the film.

He’d known the moment that Caprice showed up that this was going to be a WRAITH mission. He would be seduced by the beautiful and apparently helpless damsel-in-distress Falcon was menacing this week, only for it to turn out that she’d been the real power behind the WRAITH syndicate and its leader Professor Argent this whole time and had only sought out Agent 007 in order to get his measure before using him in her scheme to do…whatever it was she planned to do this time. You could never be quite sure with this programme. Beautiful, conniving, utterly brilliant and entirely untrustworthy, that was Caprice – that was all she had really been programmed with. She lied every time she opened her mouth. All the same, Bashir, Julian Bashir, international man of mystery, didn’t know that, and there was no fun in playing if you let yourself remember it was all a game. So, through the screen Falcon went, insert the best witticism Julian could come up with on the spur of the moment and he was starting to feel pretty pleased with himself when the clapping started up from somewhere behind them.

That was…new. And unexpected. And playing merry hell with the plot, unless this was a slightly more obvious trap than Caprice had favoured in any of her previous storylines. Then he saw Garak, and all thoughts of what this might mean for the storyline stopped dead. Garak had even gone to the trouble of acquiring – maybe even making – an old-fashioned tux for the occasion.

“Nice tux,” he said, endeavouring to sound at least a little more collected than he felt as he stormed – or tried to storm without looking as if he was storming – over.

“Thank you.”

“Now, get out.”

Garak actually had the nerve to look wounded at that. “But, _doctor_ , I’ve only just arrived!”

“Breaking into a holosuite during someone’s programme is not only rude, it’s illegal. I should call Odo and have you arrested,” Julian snapped.

“What an extreme reaction that would be!” Garak exclaimed, all wounded innocence. “You must be _very_ embarrassed by this programme!”

“I’m not _embarrassed_ ,” Julian lied. “I’m annoyed that you have intruded into my privacy-”

Garak hurried after him as Julian stalked away, “Oh, privacy indeed. I think it goes far deeper than that, doctor. Ever since you’ve received this new programme, you’ve spent virtually every free hour in the holosuite, but you still haven’t told anyone what the programme is.”

“Am I supposed to?” Julian bit out, infuriated. Of course he was embarrassed, who _wouldn’t_ be embarrassed? Being caught playing tuxedo-and-martini spy games by Garak was the sort of thing that would humiliate _anyone_. If it had been Chief O’Brien or Jadzia Dax who’d decided to drop in on him, that would’ve been a different story – though he’d probably still have come in for a world of teasing if they stayed too long – but he couldn’t imagine Garak finding any of this anything but laughable.

“No, no,” Garak said placatingly, raising his hands, “No. But you’re such a, forgive me-” he reached out to lay one cool hand on Julian’s arm, “A _talkative_ man, and it’s _so_ unusual for you to have secrets.”

Julian could have laughed at that, bitterly, but that was an old hurt. He could ignore it.  “I must have picked up that habit from you,” he said shortly, “Now, if you will excuse me…”

He half-turned to go back to Caprice, and Garak hurried after him, slipping and sliding and nearly tiptoeing around the broken glass on the floor.

“Is this fantasy of yours…truly revealing of your inner psyche?” he asked, keeping his eyes on Julian’s despite the awkwardness of his position.

“What?”

Garak edged closer, close enough to kiss, if Julian wanted, if Julian forgot- “Is that why you’re so protective?” he asked, his voice like silk. “Are you afraid that I’ll find out some humiliating secrets of the _real_ Julian Bashir?”

“This is a fantasy,” Julian said placatingly, as if he’d never heard anything more absurd in his life than his having any kind of secret. “I’m not _hiding_ anything.”

Garak straightened a bit. “Well, if you’ve got nothing to hide…then why not let me stay?”

Julian stopped. If he didn’t let Garak stay, Garak would assume Julian was hiding something and probably sniff it out with his usual complete disregard for anyone’s secrets but his own. And then he would tease Julian for the rest of their acquaintance that the dark secret Julian had been so afraid of Garak finding out was a taste for cheesy spy holos. And Garak was standing so close now, looking at him so hopefully, and it was difficult to remember, like this, just why it was an awful, awful idea not to kick him out now under threat of reporting him to Odo if he ever tried a stunt like this again.

“…all right,” he said at last. “Now, I have to be at work in two hours, and I’d like to enjoy myself. So keep quiet and don’t rain on my parade.”

“Parade?” Garak asked, sounding almost offensively delighted.

Julian sucked in a breath. “Never mind.”

“Don’t worry, doctor,” Garak said brightly, “I can be very discreet, you’ll barely know I’m here!”

“Good.”

“But, if I may make one observation…” Garak started.

“Garak-” _Please, don’t let him tell me he’s already worked this one out,_ Julian begged any god that might happen to be listening. _He’s been here ten minutes, just grant me that._

“I only want to point out that your lovely companion is leaving,” Garak said, pointing over Julian’s shoulder. Julian looked. True to form, there went Caprice, slinking off sensuously and taking all notion of this being another WRAITH mission with her. Wonderful. It’d be back to Hong Kong after this, and a whole new story, if he didn’t take the bait. And he’d been looking forward to seeing what she had up her sleeve this time.

“Odd,” said Garak behind him. “She seemed so interested in your advances just a moment ago. I wonder what scared her away.”

 _Oh, you do, do you?_ Julian wanted to snap. As if Garak hadn’t timed that deliberately to wind Julian up. He turned, and glared.

Garak at least had the grace to look abashed. “Oh, _no_. I _do_ apologise,” he said, with breath-taking insincerity even for him. “You must be incensed, in fact,” he added, a wicked glint in his eyes, “If I were in your shoes, I’d grab a bottle of champagne and shoot me.”

Julian gritted his teeth. “I can see I’m going to regret this,” he muttered.

Garak put an arm around his shoulders with a wide, smug, satisfied grin. “Don’t worry, doctor. We’re going to have a wonderful time! After all, what could _possibly_ go wrong?”

Julian groaned. “Garak,” he said, “You do remember what I said about that phrase?”

“I hardly see how my words could cause there to be a problem, doctor,” Garak said, looking positively buoyant as they stepped into the lift. “Ah…shouldn’t we be pursuing your lovely companion?”

Julian shook his head. “No point,” he said simply, “That story opportunity has been and gone. We’ll be rerouted to my character’s home base and given another mission, I expect. Good thing I’d only just started, really – that attack from Falcon is only about ten minutes in.”

“You mean to say you had only met that young lady ten minutes ago?” Garak asked, raising his brow-ridges. “You do work fast, doctor, but I hadn’t thought-”

“She’s only a holosuite simulation,” Julian reminded him irritably, “Besides, that’s sort of the point. She seduces me, and that begins the plot – probably she was going to use incriminating photographs to blackmail me or something.”

Garak blinked. “Then why permit her to seduce you at all?”

“ _Because_ ,” Julian said, striving for patience, “If I hadn’t, there wouldn’t be a story.”

Garak frowned, obviously not best-pleased with this explanation, but at least willing to accept it for the time being. The lift came to a halt – it was only supposed to keep them occupied until the Hong Kong apartment environment had fully loaded – and they stepped out.

Garak was staring around the place in evident distaste. “You live here?”

“That’s right.”

“Decorate it yourself?” Garak asked, sounding as if it was costing him a great deal of effort not to laugh.

“The décor is appropriate for the period – 1964,” Julian said, feeling the tension drain out of him. Garak was…well, all right, he was probably going to disrupt everything, make sarcastic remarks and generally be an enjoyable nuisance the whole way through, but that was half of what Julian liked about him. He went through into the other room, looking to wash his face and remind himself for the hundredth time not to panic.

“How did you pronounce the name of this city?” Garak called from the other room, as Julian was stripping off his jacket.

“Kowloon,” he called back, “It’s part of Hong Kong.”

“And the nightclub was in Paris, which, if I remember correctly, was on the other side of the planet,” Garak said, sounding bemused and faintly annoyed by this lack of realism. Julian didn’t bother explaining that the whole abortive Paris mission had just been wiped and came out into the main part of the flat, only to see Emile standing in the doorway of the flat. Discreet, blue-eyed, fastidious Emile, who made snide remarks about Julian’s dress sense and could re-programme a computer in fifteen minutes flat.

“Mr Bashir,” he said, all crisp accent, smirk and slight air of being too good for all this. “I didn’t expect you home so soon. Paris not quite what you were expecting?”

“…no,” Julian said weakly. “Not quite.”

Damn, damn, damn. Had Garak realised it yet? He had to, hadn’t he? Emile was twenty years younger and had bright auburn hair instead of black, but you couldn’t mistake those eyes.

He swallowed. “May I introduce my friend, Mr Garak? Garak, this is-” He could not, he could _not_ stand here with a straight face and introduce ‘Emile Luvsitt’ to Garak. Not if he knew – and how could he _not_?

“This is?” Garak prodded.

“Emile,” Emile said, offering a hand with a cool smile. “A pleasure, Mr Garak.”

Garak took it, and grinned predatorily. “Likewise,” he said, casting a sideways look at Julian.

“I should put this away,” Emile said briskly, indicating the briefcase he’d brought in with him – probably mission-relevant, Julian thought, or it wouldn’t be there – “Would you like to change into something more comfortable?” he added, glancing distastefully at Julian’s tuxedo.

Julian nodded, and forced a smile. “That would be perfect. See if we can find Mr Garak something as well – perhaps the grey?”

“Only if you wish to destroy a sartorial reputation on which I slaved for years,” Emile returned tartly, going over to the mirror. Garak’s head had snapped around to follow him, wearing an expression like a cat doused in water which mutated into one of fiendish amusement as the wall behind the mirror turned to reveal a rack of weapons.

“Care for a drink?” Julian said, in a probably futile attempt to distract him.

“Not just yet,” Garak said, still eyeing Emile thoughtfully. “Is he your valet or your personal assassin?”

“Valet,” Julian said, “Emile’s very capable. He speaks seven languages, has degrees in biology, chemistry, physics, can fly anything from a jet to a helicopter and makes an excellent martini.”

“And,” Garak said dryly, “Has far better dress sense than his employer has ever displayed.”

Emile sniffed, “That would hardly be difficult,” he said, matching Garak’s tone perfectly. Julian nearly winced. “Will there be anything else?” Emile added, turning to Julian with an edge of promise in his voice that would usually have been very welcome, but was now only _painfully_ awkward.

“I’ll let you know,” Julian promised, heading back towards the sofa while Emile went through to the other room. Garak, beside him, was smirking.

“I take it,” Garak said, “Your character is some kind of rich dilettante with a taste for weapons, women and…occasionally, it seems, young men.”

“They don’t necessarily need to be young,” Julian said, before he could stop himself. “And actually my character is far more disreputable. I’m a spy.”

“A spy?” Garak demanded, turning to take in the whole flat “And you live _here_?”

Julian leant back as Garak sat down. “Yes. I work for one of the nation-states of this era, Great Britain, which is battling various other nations in what is called the Cold War. This apartment, my clothes, weapons, even my valet were provided to me by my government.”

Garak’s face was a picture, though not of the sort anyone would consider hanging on their wall. “I think I joined the wrong intelligence service.”

Julian bit back the urge to apologise. “That was part of why I didn’t want to tell you,” he said carefully, “I thought you’d think it was…insulting, I suppose. Though I liked the genre years before I met you.”

Garak smiled wickedly at him, “For an insult to sting, Doctor, it needs to bear some resemblance to reality, which I can assure you that this…programme…certainly does not. And how could I, a simple tailor, be insulted by such a fantasy?”

“Mr Bashir?” It was Emile again. “I have the clothes you asked for – if you’d come with me?” he added, glancing at Garak, “I’m not quite sure if these will fit.”

They would, of course – this was a holosuite, and so they would fit – but it gave Julian an excuse not to talk to Garak for a little while, and right now he needed one.

It wasn’t the grey, as it happened, which Julian had expected. He’d programmed Emile to be picky about these things expecting a few snide remarks to liven things up, make him feel more like a character and less like a plot device on legs, and ended up with a veritable tyrant, but there it was.

“-thank you, my dear,” Garak was saying when Julian went back through to the main room, tugging at the cuffs of a green-golden jacket that brought out all the subtle greens in the grey of his scales. Julian tried not to notice. “This should do nicely,” Garak went on, “Although I’m not quite sure what the purpose of this…item…is.” He pulled fretfully at his dark-green tie, looking at it in the mirror with evident distaste.

“It’s perfect,” Julian said, joining him by the mirror. “Thank you, Emile,” he added, glancing around at Emile, who nodded and disappeared with the two tuxedos – the only real items of clothing in the game.

“Isn’t this a rather ostentatious life, for a spy?” Garak asked, following Julian across the room.

Julian shrugged, “It’s all part of my cover: I’m posing as a wealthy jet-setter, so I have to act like one.”

“Jet-setter?” asked Garak, in a tone of polite incomprehension.

“People of this era used to travel in-”

There was a soft mechanical whir from the direction of the bar behind him, and Garak’s eyes widened. And then, before Julian could turn, he heard a click of the tongue, almost a tut, from where the bar had been.

“Julian, Julian, Julian,” purred a Russian-accented voice. Oh, _god_. “Can we dispense with the illusion that you are doing any of this for any reason but that you want to?”

Julian saw Garak’s eyes widen, and smothered a groan as he turned, slowly, to face the newcomer. “Hello, Sasha,” he said grimly.

Sasha – Colonel Komananov – gave a wide and predatory smile. “I must say,” he said, pushing himself up and off the bed to prowl closer to Julian, “I am surprised to see you alive after the business with the dirigible over Iceland.”

“I had a parachute and there was a submarine waiting for me,” Julian said stiffly, not looking at Garak. “It was nothing miraculous.”

Sasha raised his eyebrows, “I shall try not to underestimate your talent for survival,” he said, not taking his eyes off Julian’s for a moment. “Introduce me to your friend?”

Beside him, Julian felt Garak bristle. He sighed. “Garak, this is Colonel Aleksandr Komananov of the KGB. Sasha, my friend Mr Garak.”

Colonel Komananov was a little taller than Julian, thick-bodied, dark-haired, blue-eyed, pale and sardonic, somehow managing to look impossibly put-together even in his shirtsleeves, his hair slicked back off his face. How, Julian wondered through the roaring in his ears, had he never noticed any of that before? It wasn’t as if he’d been doing it on purpose. Just…that when he’d tried to imagine a spy from an enemy agency with whom Agent Bashir might share the sort of forbidden romance-between-enemies plotline that was everywhere in these sorts of stories, the first thing he’d thought of had been dark hair, and blue eyes, and dry comments on Federation naïveté that somehow always managed to sound as much affectionate as condemnatory.

“Fascinating,” Colonel Komananov said, still not looking at Garak. “You seem tense.”

Julian gritted his teeth. “It’s been rather a stressful day,” he said shortly.

“Then I’m sorry I must make it worse for you,” Sasha said, and produced a folder from under the pillows. “In the last twenty-four hours, a series of earthquakes have struck cities from Vladivostok to New York. Our seismologists have analysed the earthquakes and concluded that they are artificial.”

“So?” Garak said peevishly, “That’s not so difficult. One only has to-”

“Garak,” Julian said sharply, rounding on him. There was a long, painful pause.

Sasha’s eyes flicked between them. “…one only has to?” he enquired delicately, “You seem to know a great deal about this, Mr Garak. How is it that you know Julian?”

“Professionally,” Julian cut in, before Garak could say anything. “He’s a colleague. Go on.”

Sasha made an eloquent gesture, “Oh, I’m sure you can deduce the rest of it. The nature of the crisis is such that our governments have decided to cooperate. By which it is meant, neither of them trusts the other to deal with this on their own without stealing whatever device is causing it to use against them.”

Garak made a stifled noise that sounded like it might have started as a laugh. “Some things apparently never change,” he said. “Still…rather a vague assignment, isn’t it?”

Sasha glanced over at him, looking more than a little put out. “We do have one clue. One of the world's leading seismologists, an individual rather improbably named Professor Honey Bare, presumably as a punishment, has disappeared. My superiors believe he has been kidnapped.”

“You’re quite sure,” Garak asked, “That he hasn’t just gone off the grid, changed his name and tried to reinvent himself completely to escape the shame of such a designation?”

“If he had, we would have found him,” Sasha replied, and smirked at Julian, “Although I would not have blamed him if he had. Really, my dear, for all your government loves to expound the cruelty of Soviet justice…I believe I would take the gulag over having to answer to that name.”

Glancing down at the picture of Professor Bare Julian had no escape from his recent run of bad luck. Professor Bare was blonde, round-faced, blue-eyed, almost cherubic, with round glasses that made him think of the shape of a Cardassian’s orbital ridges.

“…I see,” he said grimly, his heart sinking, tucking the photograph away in an inside pocket and daring a glance at Garak, who still looked sulky, before returning his attention to Sasha, who was watching him expectantly. “I suppose you already have some idea where Professor Bare is?”

“Of course,” Sasha said, with magnificent self-satisfaction. “The inadequacy of western intelligence-gathering never fails to astonish me. He was last seen-”

The door slid open, revealing Emile with the tuxedos, and Julian was just about to speak to him when he fell forward, dead. Falcon and his men stepped through after him. There was the expected fight scene, complete with use of an explosive cufflink from Sasha and Falcon falling dramatically to his presumably-death. Well, presumably for the other characters – Julian was pretty sure he’d pop up again. It was what Falcon did. Julian had buried him in rubble, run over him with a car, thrown him out of the window on a speeding train, and still he bounced back every time to continue his hopeless quest to murder Agent Bashir. It was a bit sad, really, if he stopped to think about it. Didn’t the man have anything else to do with his time? Well, obviously not, he was a holosuite simulation – and not a particularly complex one, at that. Garak, as might’ve been predicted, ended up knifing one of Falcon’s men in the back mid-fight while Sasha subdued the other. Really, this was about as close to a standard holosuite run-through as anything had been since Garak turned up, except that Julian had felt uncomfortably aware of Garak’s eyes on them all the way through the distraction-kiss used to give him time to slip the cufflink off Sasha’s wrist, turning what had been a pleasant fantasy into something more like the sort of nightmares that involved wandering naked and half an hour late into the room where your final exam was being held.

“…interesting taste in accessories,” Garak said once the last of Falcon’s men had been bundled out of the door. He’d lost his tie in the struggle – or possibly used it to bind one of their attackers – and didn’t seem at all out of breath.

“It was a gift,” Sasha replied, rather haughtily, “The KGB, unlike certain other intelligence agencies, has no need to rely on flashy gadgetry to do our work for us.”

Julian rolled his eyes, “You brought out a laser cutter the first time we worked together,” he reminded Sasha, going over to Emile’s crumpled body. His eyes were still open, his body still warm. He must have died almost instantly – people did, in the holosuites. You never saw a holosuite character dying slowly, by inches, in front of you. He closed the dead eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, and stood. “We should get moving. Since we’re going to be working together, you might as well tell us who the KGB suspects was behind Professor Bare’s kidnap?”

Sasha raised his eyebrows, “Have you heard,” he said, “Of a certain Doctor Hippocrates Noah?”

“No,” Julian admitted, and raised his eyebrows, “I suppose the KGB already knows his name, address and how he takes his coffee?”

“There’s nothing so remarkable about that,” Garak said irritably, “On Cardassia, that would be considered entirely usual. Really, doctor, did the maker of this programme do any research?”

“Probably not into actual spycraft, no,” Julian replied, wishing Sasha wasn’t still there. “It’s not supposed to be accurate. Probably Intelligence would have a field day if it were.”

Garak sniffed, and Julian could tell that this wasn’t explanation enough. Well, he’d just have to live with it. Julian hadn’t _forced_ him to tag along.

“As it happens,” Sasha said dryly, “We do know enough. He’s been implicated in sixty known kidnappings. None on Soviet soil, as yet, so the KGB did not consider it our affair. Artisans, scientists…all at the forefront of their respective fields. As yet, we have been unable to uncover why he has taken them, but according to a contact of mine in Paris, each of the missing people was invited to meet Doctor Noah at a club in the city shortly before they disappeared.”

“The Club Ingénue?” Julian asked. It would have to be – there were only so many settings programmed into this game.

“Da.”

“I had a feeling.” He glanced at Garak. “It’s not too late to back out, you know,” he said, without much hope.

“No, no,” Garak said, his eyes sliding over to Sasha, “I’m sure I’d be delighted to watch you work. Whether it will bear any resemblance to actual intelligence practices is looking increasingly dubious, but I suppose that isn’t the point either?”

“Not remotely,” Julian agreed. “I hope you remember how to tie a bowtie. We’re going back to Paris.”

The plane they were taking to Paris was large, luxurious and designed to allow for a lull and perhaps a quiet rendezvous on the way to wherever Julian happened to be going. Mercifully, it was also designed to get them to Paris a lot faster than the eight or nine hours such a flight would have taken in reality during this time period. Garak was prowling about the main part of the plane, and Julian had retreated to the galley for a very stiff drink.

“You’ve been on edge all day,” Sasha said from just behind him, and Julian turned, glass in hand, to see him leaning casually against the bar.

He shrugged. “Garak and I…well, he’s a good friend, but…” oh, god help him, he was pouring out his troubles to a hologram. “He seems to think of me as mostly a dilettante.”

“You do rather cultivate that impression, my dear,” Sasha moved forwards, and plucked the glass from Julian’s hand. “Besides,” he added, with a haughty little sniff, “All you capitalists are dilettantes. Afraid to offer true devotion to the State and its needs.”

“Whereas your loyalty to the Party is, of course, absolute?” Julian asked, only half-teasing.

“Da. Of course.”

Julian raised his eyebrows, “And they would not send you to the gulag for betraying your country with a British agent?”

“Nyet. I am clearly seducing you for the good of the Party. You will find the blackmail letter in your flat in Hong Kong when next you return there. Defect, or we will inform your superiors.” His nose very nearly brushed against Julian’s, their breath mingling in the air between them.

“Oh, _dear_ ,” Julian breathed, “This _is_ embarrassing – my superiors asked me to do the same.”

Sasha gave a low huff of laughter, and leaned in closer still-

“Doctor, if I could have a word in private?” Garak’s voice called out from the other room. Julian froze, and pulled away from Sasha, his face burning. Of all the situations to get caught in, this was probably…all right, not quite the most compromising, but _definitely_ the most incriminating. He turned to face the doorway, but Garak wasn’t there. Had he already left? Or never come through at all?

“Of course,” he said, trying to sound casual, casting an apologetic look at Sasha on his way out just out of habit - hologram or not, it felt quite cold to just leave him hanging there. Garak was still pacing back and forth in the other room, looking as if he’d just bitten into a lemon, but he brightened a little at the sight of Julian, and laid a hand on Julian’s arm as soon as they were close enough to touch.

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” Julian asked, sticking his hands in his pockets.

Garak paused for a moment, and seemed for that moment almost ruffled before saying. “Do you have any idea when this contraption is going to land? Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I thought you said you only booked two hours of this programme, and the quarters on this aircraft are starting to get a little claustrophobic!”

“Time distortion,” Julian said patiently, “It feels longer than it is – it’ll probably be over pretty soon anyway, since-”

“Since the whole point of this interlude is to allow you to enjoy a private rendezvous with Colonel Komananov?”

Julian nodded, a little guiltily, “Obviously that isn’t going to happen now, but the opportunity has come and gone, so we should land in a minute or two. We should be able to see a bit of Paris before we get to Club Ingénue as well,” he added, “I don’t know what you’ll think of it, but I nearly lived there once. It’s a beautiful city.” It would be the famous parts the programme showed, not the back streets Palis had dragged him through, the fascinating little second-hand bookshops and quiet squares, the creperie two streets away from her flat where he’d blurted out his proposal three days early, without even having found a proper ring.

“I’ll be interested to see it,” Garak said, looking slightly less as if he’d bitten into a lemon as Julian drew level with him, “Were you there long?”

“I used to spend holidays there, when I was at the Academy,” Julian replied, trying to think back. “If I was going to stay on Earth, it would’ve been there.”

Garak was standing very close to him again, as close as Sasha had been. He had to have realised it, hadn’t he?

“I’m sure I’ll be fascinated to see it,” Garak said, and then, “Tell me, is the Colonel presuming on a previous relationship because it’s necessary to the plot of this…episode...or is it to remove the necessity of including a more involved romantic subplot?”

Julian blinked. “He’s a recurring character,” he admitted, “He doesn’t show up all the time – or she, if you prefer the female version – but when he does, it’s generally because some disaster or other has happened that forces our governments to work together. Or we’re enemies. Caprice – you met her at the beginning – tends to be a sign there’s a larger criminal organisation behind things instead of a lone madman-”

“And political missions?” Garak asked, sounding genuinely interested now.

Julian shrugged. “I…don’t generally get those,” he admitted, “The spy genre – well, this bit of it – is usually pretty solidly removed from actual politics. If you want something more accurate, I can lend you some Le Carre.” He grinned. “ _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy_ was probably written with you in mind.”

“What an intriguing title!” Garak smiled, wide and satisfied, “Am I to take it you will drag yourself away from this programme long enough to have lunch with me tomorrow?”

Julian tried to think back. “I…I haven’t missed that many, have I?”

“Not our weekly lunches, no,” Garak said, sounding a little put out. “But I had hoped you’d join me yesterday, only for Nurse Jabara to tell me you were in the holosuites. And then it was just a matter of finding out how much time you were spending here – really, doctor, even Chief O’Brien is starting to worry about you, and he’s almost as addicted to them as you are.”

Julian flushed, “It’s one of my favourite genres,” he admitted, “And one of the only decent spy games I’ve been able to find – most of them tend to have a fairly set storyline, and they tend to railroad you – force you to follow only that storyline. I suppose that’s where Felix got the idea for this one from, I used to complain about it to him all the time-”

“Ah…Felix?” Garak asked.

“An old friend from the Academy,” Julian grimaced, “He dropped out in his last year because he found out space travel makes him sick, and if you couldn’t take deep space postings why bother? He’s been working in holoprogramming for a few years now.”

Garak laughed softly, “Really, my dear doctor, you give up your secrets so easily it’s hard to believe Colonel Komananov hasn’t got you to spill every state secret you hold,” he said, smiling slyly.

Julian shrugged, “He’s fictional, he can’t do anything with them.”

Garak’s expression closed off a little, “Is that the draw of it, then, doctor?” he asked, drawing a little closer.

“Is what?”

“Only,” Garak said, “That I find it difficult to fathom why an intelligent man might choose to spend all his time in the company of these…” he made a dismissive gesture, “Hologrammatic puppets, most of them with hardly enough memory capacity to fulfil their role in a set story, rather than associating with real people. I suppose…it’s safer, isn’t it? To surround yourself with people who act always as you expect them to, within set parameters, who can never…truly…threaten your beliefs or your real self, because they do not know you?”

How was it possible, Julian wondered, for Garak to get something so entirely right and wrong at the same time?

“If I didn’t want to have my beliefs threatened, I’d never have befriended _you_ ,” he reminded Garak, trying to make it sound like a friendly bit of teasing rather than a frustrated jab. He blinked. “Wait…Garak. Did you break into my holosuite just because you missed me at lunch yesterday? You could have just _asked_ to come, you know.”

“Your response to my arrival earlier suggests you probably would have refused if I had,” Garak said, sounding almost sulky now.

Julian huffed out a breath, “Probably, yes,” he admitted, “It would be like…like you secretly playing out medical holodramas on the sly. Would you want to invite me along to something like that? Knowing that I know more about the subject and would probably make fun of every detail for being unrealistic along the way?”

“Do they make holoprogrammes like that?” Garak asked, sounding politely curious and not at all as if he’d got the point.

“Yes, actually – I was addicted to them for a few months when I was about eleven.” And, looking back now, he was inclined to wince at the memory because dear god they had been awful.

Garak smirked at him, “Really, doctor, if I had discovered you spent your free evenings engaging in secret, guilty fantasies about running a tailor’s shop, I might understand your concern…”

“Of course,” Julian said, his smile twisting up into a smirk. “Probably a gap in the market, there, maybe I should suggest it to Felix.” He heard the engines become abruptly louder, and stepped away, “It sounds like we’re landing now, so if you can hold out against the claustrophobia a little longer…”

“I’ll do my best,” Garak said, squeezing lightly at Julian’s elbow. If he really did suffer from claustrophobia, he was showing no sign of it. He let go abruptly, and crossed to look out of the nearest window. “Ah…doctor? Is this view accurate?”

Julian followed him, and looked over Garak’s shoulder. It was a very pretty view – picture-postcard pretty. The Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, the pyramid at the Louvre…all the things that said ‘Paris’ to the brain all improbably close together and probably far larger than made sense at this distance.

“Sort of,” he said, “You can see all of those things in Paris now, though they’re all twenty-first century reconstructions after the city got flattened during the Eugenics Wars. Um…they’re all a bit closer together than they are in reality, but that might just be because this was before they were all reconstructed – I know the Louvre was moved after the wars – it’s the main art gallery there,” he added, at Garak’s blank look.

“I see.” Garak frowned down at the city. “You intended to live here?”

Julian shifted. “My ex-fiancée was Parisian. We broke things off before I came out here because I couldn’t see myself living the rest of my life on Earth and she couldn’t leave it – not many opportunities for a ballerina on a deep-space station, and their dancing careers don’t generally last that long, your average ballet dancer retires by thirty-five.”

It was more about Palis than he’d ever told Garak. Somehow, their conversations had never woven around to Julian’s romantic pursuits unless Garak was teasing him about them. Still, Garak looked at him for a long time before the plane landed.

Scene transitions, in the holosuite, were always a little dicey. There was so much that went into real life that just ate up time in the holosuite, and when you were paying by the hour most players didn’t especially want to be bothered by them. They stepped off the plane, Sasha emerging out of the galley, quite impeccably dressed in a black coat with a fur collar over a beautifully-cut dark suit, and the three of them walked down a long, bare, narrow corridor. Through an archway at the other end of the corridor was Club Ingénue.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, doctor,” Garak said as they paused in the curtained entryway, slipping an arm through Julian’s – Sasha, on Julian’s other side, had already taken his arm – and glancing around the club with an expression of amused contempt. “Is this place really named Club Innocent, or is the translator once again failing to grasp the nuances of what is meant here?”

“…more or less,” Julian admitted, “An ingenue is an innocent person – usually a young and attractive one, in popular parlance. You don’t have a word for that on Cardassia?”

“ _Several_ ,” Garak allowed, “Most of them pejorative.” His lip curled as he took in the dancers writhing in golden cages, the fur coats and military uniforms of the guests, the gleaming gold of the fittings. “I suppose they intended it to be ironic. If a touch on-the-nose.”

“Doctor Noah does not seem especially concerned with subtlety,” Sasha agreed. “There was certainly no attempt to disguise his involvement with these kidnappings.”

“I suppose he believed his money would protect him from the consequences of his actions,” Julian said grimly. It was the usual rationalisation under these circumstances.

Garak raised his brow-ridges. “You yourself are only investigating because one of the victims was closely connected to an ongoing planetary disaster,” he reminded Julian. “To all intents and purposes, Doctor Noah’s money _has_ protected him.”

Sasha sniffed, and cast a glare at Garak – apparently, he had been planning to say something similar. Of course he had. Because Julian had specifically said ‘more cultural posturing and opportunities to bicker’ during one of his tweaks to the programme – damn, damn, _damn_. “It is Western decadence at its most grievous,” he agreed, sounding quite put out that he had to agree. “If this were happening in Russia-”

“It would probably be happening behind closed doors at somebody or other’s dacha,” Julian finished, and then glanced at Garak, “And it’s not as if Cardassia is short of examples of people using power and influence to get away with bending the rules either, if you’ll recall.” A waiter approached them before either of the others could reply and Julian seized upon the opportunity thus presented. “Uh…I’d like to see Doctor Noah,” he said, “I have an invitation.”

The waiter nodded, and disappeared deeper into the club, and Sasha took the opportunity to direct another volley at Garak.

“Is your agency hiring foreign nationals now?” he asked, glancing at Julian and ignoring Garak entirely.

“No.”

“I thought you said Mr Garak was a colleague? He certainly isn’t English.”

Garak smiled widely. “Definitely not. Although we met on a professional matter. Is it any particular concern of yours how a foreign intelligence agency conducts itself?”

“None at all,” Sasha admitted, his eyes flickering downwards for a moment. “Just curious.”

Garak gave Julian a very sharp look at that, and Julian tried not to look guilty. It wasn’t a deliberate replica, he reminded himself. A few shared characteristics, if that. He was allowed to have a type. That said type was not at all what he’d preferred before he’d come to Deep Space Nine and met Garak wasn’t anyone’s business but his.

Across the room, the waiter was speaking to someone behind a screen – probably a middleman rather than Doctor Noah, knowing Bond villains. Probably they were just coming up to being captured and held hostage. He caught Julian’s eye suddenly and beckoned – apparently, they would be able to get through without any further conniving. The three of them crossed the club at roughly the same pace, even, and Julian swept through into the back room with a man on each arm, about as picture-perfect a scene as any of the early directors who had refined the genre could have hoped for.

The back room was smaller, but even more richly decorated. The art on the walls looked Impressionist, part of the collection that had gone up with the Louvre, the far side of the room curtained off. There was a baccarat table set up, surrounded by men and women in tuxedos and evening gowns.

A short, slight, moustachioed man in a white tuxedo stood as they approached. “May I see your invitation?” he asked, in the sort of French accent that had made Palis convulse with laughter whenever Julian had attempted one.

Julian tilted his head slightly to the side and tried not to smirk too obviously. “Doctor Noah?”

“I am Duchamps,” the Frenchman said, with an oily sort of smile. “I am Doctor Noah’s…associate.”

Julian paused for a moment, and then nodded at the baccarat table. “May I?”

Duchamps stepped aside and gestured to the table, letting them by quite unimpeded. If this rather wispy Frenchman could have provided much of an impediment to a group that contains Garak. Julian had his doubts about that, but that wouldn’t get them to Doctor Noah.

The ‘geologist’ cover-story went off without a hitch, Sasha joining in to back him up, even if Garak bristled slightly when Julian introduced Sasha as his husband. What _were_ Cardassian ideas on homosexuality, again, Julian wondered. Somehow, the subject had never come up. Certainly none of the Cardassian novels Julian had been lent included even so much as a recognisable romantic subplot between people of _any_ gender combination, and he’d never quite got up the nerve to ask, in case Garak read that question in just the spirit it had been intended and took offence – or worse, _laughed_. He’d been briefed on the Bajorans’ surprisingly complicated beliefs on the matter before he came out here, but no-one had ever thought Cardassian social norms would be relevant, even if anyone in the Federation knew much of anything about them. The baccarat game...had taken him a few tries to master. But most card games were simple enough after a few rounds, and even if they weren’t, the plot needed him to manage a big win at some point anyway, and so he would get one by dumb luck if nothing else. Getting sprayed in the face with some sort of knockout powder at the end of the game was…a little less expected, maybe, but well within the confines of genre expectations and at least saved them another awkward scene transition.

He came to slowly, to the sound of Sasha swearing in muffled, untranslated Russian nearby and a surprising chill in the air. He blinked his eyes open to see mountains outside a wall of windows, snow-capped and dizzyingly far below them. It would be the Himalayas, Julian thought. There wasn’t much point in being a supervillain if you were going to set up in the Alps. Probably Everest, on the basis that that was somewhere most off-worlders had actually heard of. On the other sofa, Garak was stirring.

“Another decorator’s nightmare,” he said sourly, pushing himself upright as Julian dragged himself to his feet, “This era had a distinct lack of taste.”

“If I’d known you’d be coming, I’d have gone for an adventure dealing with the popular culture,” Julian said wryly, “Luxury was more-or-less consistent for most of this century, until the Eugenics Wars.” He hoped he didn’t sound too stiff on the last few words, but it was difficult to get back into the habit of hiding, here. The holosuites were usually the one place he could go to be honest. He frowned around the room, “Where are we, do you think? Sasha?”

“Welcome to Paradise, Mr Merriweather,” said a voice from somewhere behind them. Julian turned, hurrying to re-button his jacket. Garak made a noise that sounded a bit like a stifled snicker. “I believe you’ve been looking for me. My name is Hippocrates Noah.”

Doctor Noah was…actually a fairly standard-issue Bond villain of the ‘evil scientist’ variety. Tall, old, white-haired, bony, with a voice so deep it almost seemed to reverberate in the air for a few seconds after every word. He was, of course, British, with the same sort of crisp public-school accent it had taken Julian months to perfect. But then, holosuite villains had been Britain’s main export for as long as holosuites had existed.

“…my pleasure,” Julian managed, forcing a smile. “You know, I had hoped to visit you anyway. There was no need for drugs.”

“I would prefer my privacy remain undisturbed,” Noah said coolly. “Please, sit.”

Julian did not, pacing back and forth as Noah handed out cigars and trying to figure out just what the plan was. It probably had something to do with some kind of doomsday device, it usually did, and the kidnappings were significant, but…were they kidnappings? Or a cabal retreating to the safety of their headquarters?

“Mr Merriweather,” Noah said as he finished handing out the cigars – Sasha had already lit his, whereas Garak was examining the one he had been handed with the air of a zoologist observing the habits of some new lifeform – “I understand your field is geology.”

“That’s right.”

Noah smiled coldly, and gestured to the gaudy jewelled vase on the table between them. “Then I’m sure you can appreciate these stones in my most recent acquisition.”

Julian bent to pretend to examine it. “A most striking display of rubies, tourmaline, sapphire, topaz. Judging by the high chromium content in the rubies, I'd say they come from the hydrothermal deposits on the Tibetan plateau.” He straightened, and paced over towards the window. “Which isn’t surprising, considering we’re on the south-eastern slope of Mount Everest at about…twenty-two thousand feet, I should say.” He turned back to face the room just in time to catch Garak rolling his eyes at him.

“Twenty-five, actually,” Noah retorted.

Julian raised his eyebrows. “You must not get many tourists.”

Noah closed the box of cigars and set it down on a side-table. “My guests and I place a premium on our privacy. We don’t want any unwelcome guests, such as men sent by governments who disagree with my political philosophy.”

“And what is your philosophy?” Sasha asked, his eyes gleaming. “Anarchism? Fascism? I sincerely hope you do not intend to convince me that this is an attempt at communism.” His eyes lingered on the gold, the jewels, the artwork, and his lip curled.

“I should never stoop to suggest such a thing,” Noah said haughtily, “I believe in a well-ordered world, a far cry from the chaos we find ourselves trapped in today. We,” he approached Julian, smiling the sort of smile that would not inspire anyone to trust it. “Are building a new future here. A new beginning for mankind.” Over Noah’s shoulder, Julian caught Garak’s eye and had to look away quickly to keep himself from laughing at the look on Garak’s face. Noah, oblivious, ploughed on. “A new chapter in human history will open right here on my island.”

“Island?” Julian said, as disbelievingly as he could manage.

Noah turned to him, all false surprise, “Forgive me,” he said, all sincerity, “Sometimes I do get ahead of myself.” He raised a hand and stalked off, “Allow me to explain.”

A flick of a button, and the whole wooden back wall of the room slid away, the fireplace rotating on the spot to reveal a map of Earth that took up the whole wall and a dashboard of switches and buttons that Julian suspected were mostly ornamental. And, standing behind with a clipboard, was Professor Honey Bare, his hair pulled back off his face, white lab-coat quite pristine.

“We’re almost ready,” he called as Doctor Noah approached him, “The laser sequence is programmed – although I do fear we may need to make some adjustments at our site in South America.”

“I do have every confidence in you, my dear,” Noah said, smiling genuinely for what seemed to be the first time and kissing Professor Bare’s hand.

Sasha cursed under his breath, “I suppose we can assume our victims are either working for him or dead,” he said contemptuously.

“That would be the logical assumption, yes,” Garak agreed, sounding richly amused by the whole scenario. His eyes were narrowed a little, and Julian swallowed. Please, let him not have realised it yet. The resemblance wasn’t so very close as all that. He didn’t think he could bear Garak realising, and finding it…what? Offensive? Or worse, Garak knowing…and thinking it was funny. That would almost be worse than Garak taking offence would be. If nothing else, if Garak was angry enough Julian might be safely dead within a few minutes, whereas the humiliation and the sting of Garak finding him laughable would last forever. Garak was probably the only person on the station who hadn’t laughed at him, in the beginning. If that changed now, because of this-

“You see, Mr Merriweather,” Noah went on, not releasing Professor Bare’s hand, “Not only do I intend to create a new future, I intend to create a new world!” He gestured to the map. “At each of these points, I have hidden a new form of laser. One that can penetrate the Earth’s crust down into the mantle itself.”

“The global earthquakes,” Julian said, almost breathless now, Garak and what he might see entirely forgotten. This was it, the real joy of the holosuites – the immediacy of it, the way the hairs stood up on the back of his neck as if this were real, as if Doctor Noah and his plot and his threat were all entirely genuine.

Noah stepped forward to lean on the console. “Those were only tests,” he said, in a voice that was full of only half-suppressed excitement. “Soon, I will activate all of these lasers together, and when I do, they will produce worldwide earthquakes the likes of which we have never felt before.” “Killing everyone on the planet,” Garak said from the sofa behind them, still sounding mildly amused. “Including, one would expect, yourselves. Leaving aside how little sense the rest of it makes, one really has to wonder what the point of the other kidnappings was, if it was just a particularly overblown suicide attempt.”

Noah gestured with his cigar. “More than that,” he promised, “There comes a time when a house has been so damaged by termites that you must not only kill the termites but demolish the house and build again.” His voice had risen alarmingly by now, and it was only with a visible effort that he controlled himself. “The quakes are only a minor side-effect. The real goal of this project is to have these lasers of mine produce massive fissures in the Earth's crust, releasing millions of tons of molten lava.” He leant in to look Julian directly in the eye. “Now, Mister Merriweather, you're the geologist. Tell me what happens next.”

Julian paused, “Once that much lava is released, the tectonic plates would begin to settle.”

“And the surface of the planet will shrink, just like letting air out of a balloon.” Noah took another long drag of his cigar and smiled in satisfaction.

It was Sasha who spoke next. “But if the surface of the planet shrinks, the oceans-”

“-will cover the Earth,” Julian finished for him. “Diabolical.”

This time, he heard a definite low chuckle behind him from the sofa where Garak sat.

“Visionary,” Noah retorted, “Your friend there seems to agree,”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Garak piped up, “Merely enjoying the melodrama, I assure you, doctor.”

Julian rolled his eyes fondly. “Thank you, Garak.”

“I am going to let mankind begin anew,” Noah murmured, either not programmed to deal with sarcastic player byplay or too enraptured by his own plan to stop now. “Here on this island paradise, the only place that will remain above water on my brave new world.” He stalked off towards the windows, his voice rising. “And that is why I have gathered the finest minds, the very best that mankind has to offer. We will repopulate and start a new human race. Pity you won't be able to join us.”

Julian clasped his hands behind his back, quite unruffled. “Are you revoking my invitation?”

Noah huffed. “Oh, I intend to do more than that, Mr Bashir-” Behind Noah, Garak scrambled to his feet, but Noah didn’t seem to notice as he continued. “Not only have I brought the greatest minds to my mountain retreat, but I have also hired the greatest protection that money can buy. I believe you already know my newest employee.”

It was Falcon. Of course it was. That was the way these things tended to go and if Falcon had actually been dead Julian would’ve been very surprised.

And that was how he and Garak found themselves bound to the support struts of a giant laser that was located, improbably, directly underneath Noah’s base.

“This,” Noah said gloatingly, winding his way around the support struts, “Is one of the seventy-four lasers I've deployed around the world. When I throw that switch, it'll begin a five-minute countdown that even I can't stop. Once the laser fires, the whole cave will be filled with molten lava.”

“I will admit,” Garak said, still adamantly refusing to take any of this seriously, “I am rather confused as to why you chose to take the risk of your own base being consumed by lava when the time comes.  Whether or not you intend any overspill, I can’t imagine having a base directly suspended over a magma caldera will be especially comfortable for you.”

Noah smirked, and adjusted Garak’s bowtie, setting it slightly crooked. “It’s kind of you to think of our comfort, but I’m sure we’ll be _fine_.”

“Where’s Colonel Komananov?” Julian demanded.

Noah smiled. “He’s a…fascinating…individual. Intelligent, capable, immensely skilled…not quite, perhaps, at the same level of some of my other guests, but certainly more than capable of helping to propagate the second human race…with some encouragement, of course. I don’t expect him to agree immediately.” He flicked the switch. The countdown began. “Try to stay cool, Mr Bashir.”

As soon as he and Falcon were gone, Garak made a contemptuous noise. “I begin to see why you feared I’d find this insulting,” he said dryly, “Enabran Tain would have run circles around your Doctor Noah.”

“I’ll take your word for that.”

“You don’t have to.” Garak paused, “You know, I was rather expecting you to kill him _before_ he called for his guards, doctor. I realise this may sound a somewhat advanced concept, but I’ve had excellent results with it. Speaking of which, do you have any idea what we’re supposed to do now? I can’t imagine you’ve been fantasising about dying chained to a twentieth-century laser.”

“You won’t,” Julian promised, “If we don’t get out in time, that’s just a game-over, the programme will end a little earlier than expected. It’s a genre convention – the hero is always put in an apparently inescapable situation shortly before the end and has to get out using just their wits.”

“And you had the gall to imply that Cardassian enigma tales always ended the same way – doctor, I cannot see how any rational person could expect to-”

There was the sound of footsteps approaching, and Julian nearly groaned. Of _course_ this would have to be one of the death-traps you had to get out of by seducing the person with the keys. Of course it would. Clearly the computer hated him.

“Who’s that?” Garak demanded, trying to twist his head to see. Julian was quite glad he couldn’t – Honey Bare was descending into the caves, round face solemn, blonde hair piled up into a neat bun that exposed the nape of his neck.

“It’s our ticket out of here,” Julian replied, endeavouring to sound calm. Garak couldn’t see, after all. With any luck, this should be considerably less awkward than any of the scenes with Sasha thus far.

“Professor,” he said, pitching his voice to carry, “Did Doctor Noah send you?”

Professor Bare looked up, “I don’t have another employer,” he said, “You know, I’m almost disappointed. I was expecting a bit more…” he waved the hand not holding his clipboard, “Gadgetry.”

Julian shrugged, “I think Q branch has taken a dislike to me lately,” he agreed. “But…he sent you down here? Alone? With that timer going? There’s only three minutes left, that’s cutting it a little close.”

Professor Bare shrugged. “No-one else up there knows the machines as well,” he said simply, still frowning down at the machine. “And I don’t think Falcon would recognise the danger signs if they were formally introduced to him over dinner.”

“And none of them can follow instructions, either?” Julian shook his head, “Doctor Noah values you for your mind only so long as it is useful to him, and then sends you down into incredible risk the moment that use is at an end. And he certainly doesn’t appreciate your…other…charms as they deserve.”

“Is that your plan?” Garak demanded, sounding positively indignant now.

Julian twisted his head to glare at him. “Shut up.” He looked back at Professor Bare, who had taken a few cautious steps towards him, blue eyes wide behind his glasses, “Honey,” he said softly, “Would you grant me…one, last request? Take off those glasses.”

Garak, at the other pylon, groaned, but Honey did it.

“Like so?” he asked, blinking myopically, “It’s done – you can die happy.” His voice wasn’t quite as composed as it had been, and Julian smiled.

“Just like that,” he agreed, letting his voice drop into a purr. “You know, your hair would look so much better if it were free-”

“I must say, doctor,” Garak snapped, “This is more than I ever wanted to know about your fantasy life!”

Julian swallowed, but the pins were coming out of Honey’s hair, sure enough, and he was shaking it loose, dirty-blonde and past his shoulders.

“There,” Julian said softly, “That’s the last thing I want to see before I die.”

Honey smiled, and looked a little startled and a little smug and a little sly, and for a moment turned away, but then-

Well, then Honey’s mouth was on Julian’s, Honey’s arms slipping around him, and Julian felt the key cold against his fingers, his palm, and closed his hand around it, keeping it safe. He’d lost a key once that way before, when he’d been so distracted by the kiss he’d fumbled it, and the ignominious end of that particular run-through had not been the best experience in the world.

“I’d give you both some privacy, if I could,” Garak said sourly just out of sight, and just like that it was over as Honey drew away and disappeared up the stone steps. Julian twisted his hands, trying to get the key into position – where was the lock on the damn cuffs.

Garak snorted. “Great plan,” he said sourly, “Now what? I don’t mean to hurry you, doctor, but there’s less than a minute left and I am becoming rather intrigued about how this whole storyline is supposed to play out.”

“It’s really very simple,” Julian said cheerfully – _ah_ , he had it, the cuffs clicked open – “How much detail would you like?” he added, crossing to unlock Garak’s handcuffs.

Garak blinked. “…the _redoubtable_ Professor Bare, I assume?” he said, sounding much sulkier than Julian thought was fair for a man who had only just been let out of handcuffs.

“That’s right,” Julian said, and completely missed the way Garak’s expression twisted before he found himself being shoved back against the pylon by the shoulders, the metal cold against his back.

“Computer,” Garak called, “Freeze programme.”

At once, the chill of the cave and the pylon at Julian’s back was gone.

“Garak?” he asked, “What is it-?”

Garak’s expression was unreadable. “Tell me, doctor,” he said pleasantly, “Just how many of this game’s romantic options were in some way based on me?”

Julian swallowed. Well, he thought, it wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve it. “…all of them, more or less,” he admitted. “I didn’t know the computer would throw it up so obviously – I’d randomised the gender settings…how long have you known?”

Garak huffed, “From the moment your Colonel Komananov appeared in the programme,” he said bitterly. “Oh, they’re hardly exact copies, although physically Professor Bare came the closest, but did you think I wouldn’t recognise the details?”

Julian sagged back against the pylons. He swallowed. “I know you’re angry,” he said miserably, “And you have every right to be-”

“Angry, doctor?” Garak retorted, fixing him with a long, cool look, “Not at _all_! Why should I be angry? What could _possibly_ anger me about your preferring a simulated facsimile of my company to my actual company?”

“It isn’t- Garak, is that really what you’re-”

Garak’s hand was tight against Julian’s neck as he leaned in closer. “No, no, I quite understand,” Garak said venomously, “You wanted someone…controllable, I suppose? All the enjoyment I thought you derived from our conversations, but none of the risks of association with a Cardassian agent. Believe me, doctor, I quite understand.”

“What- No-! Garak- Garak, listen to me, please-” Julian shook his head, “Is- is that why you came in here? That you felt…neglected?”

“Certainly not,” Garak said haughtily, but released Julian’s collar. “I was curious. And now, my curiosity is assuaged.” He smiled mirthlessly. “I wanted to see a glimpse of the shape of your mind, that your fantasies might tell me more about you. And now they have. How did that rather charming work of fantasy you lent me phrase it? Caveat lector?”

“Garak-” Julian stepped forward and caught Garak by the wrists. “Just to be clear…this is what you’re upset about? Not that I-” Not that Julian _what_? Fantasised about him? Wanted him? Had been infatuated enough with him to request, again and again, tweaks that had made the side-characters of this game more and more like Garak. Had asked for arguments and cultural posturing and snide remarks about his dress sense and older men with blue eyes and mild rounded faces.

Garak stopped for a moment, and looked up at him. “No,” he said. “That is the one part in all of this that _doesn’t_ offend me. As I said, they’re hardly exact copies. If they were, at least, I could be assured that you-”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Julian promised, “I- God, I know how this sounds, but I wouldn’t…use your image that way. Quite aside from it being illegal, I’d never be able to look you in the face again if I betrayed your – well, all right, maybe not your _trust_ , but your good opinion of me that way.”

“How very _touching_ , doctor,” Garak snapped, “But what am I to make of it when you express such a clear preference for holograms and these- _diversions_ over my company, having chosen to create tolerable echoes of me to surround yourself with in this fantasy.”

“I’m not choosing it over- Garak, you’re being ridiculous!”

Garak glared at him, “Ridiculous, doctor?”

“Yes, ridiculous! Garak…they’re holograms. Not even particularly complicated holograms. They use less memory, have less capacity than the EMH programme back in sickbay. They’re not- not a replacement. And as for preferring them-” he almost laughed, “Garak, I wanted your company so much I _specifically requested_ that a holographic character _insult my dress sense_. I know we haven’t seen as much of each other lately, but…” his grip on Garak’s arm tightened. “You’re my friend. Probably the best friend I have, and I’d hate it if I ended up losing you over- over a holosuite game and-” he broke off. And his own infatuation. And he _was_ infatuated. He never felt so alive as when arguing with Garak, so full of ideas, so brimming with things to say or to do or to try. He felt top-spun all day after one of their lunches, full of points for the next argument that he couldn’t wait a full week to make.

Garak had gone abruptly very still. “And?”

Julian swallowed. “Look,” he said quietly, “You can’t have missed that I’m…that I find you attractive. Even without…all of this.” He snorted. “Miles teases me enough about how I behaved when I first got here that I know that – bouncing into ops as if the girl I fancied had suddenly asked me out when you first sat down next to me in the Replimat. I…it doesn’t have to change anything. You’re not interested. It’s fine. I’m not- I won’t push you for anything.”

After Dax, and how badly he’d embarrassed himself trying there, Julian could at least take credit for learning from his mistakes. He’d been able to stay friends with exes before – Felix, to name just one example – so surely, it would be easier with someone who never even got around to being a partner at all.

“Not interested,” Garak said flatly, his face blank. And then, all at once Julian’s back hit the pylon again, his head saved from the same fate only because Garak’s hand was at the nape of his neck, his fingers tangled in Julian’s hair. Julian’s mouth opened under Garak’s and he gasped –  half in shock, half in relief – against Garak’s mouth, his hands fisting almost of their own accord on the lapels of Garak’s jacket. It didn’t feel like kissing a human – the scrape of scales against skin, that cool tongue lapping and flickering against his, the forked tip delicately stroking against his palate – it felt…strange, and alien, and entirely wonderful all at once, a kiss like water on a hot, dry day, like biting into a tart green apple and letting the juice run down his chin. It was a long time before they finally broke apart.

“…oh,” Julian said, uselessly, his eyes saucer-wide, his hands still twisted in the front of Garak’s jacket.

Garak bridled. “‘Oh’?” he repeated, “I shall choose to take that as a compliment to my talents, doctor, but I had hoped you would have rather more to say for yourself than that!”

“Give me a minute, Garak!” Julian blinked, and shook his head, “I didn’t think you wanted-”

“Nor I you,” Garak pointed out, rather snidely. “And how you could have missed it after _Flowers of Masad_ I have no idea. I was hardly subtle.”

Julian gave a breathless sort of laugh, “Too subtle for me, clearly. Wait… _Flowers_ …was that actually a romance novel you lent me?”

Garak stared at him. “Well, what else?” he demanded. “Really, doctor, I know human literature is oblique about these things to the point of absurdity – quite how that Austen woman ever developed a reputation as a romantic novelist-”

“ _Mansfield Park_ maybe wasn’t the story to start you on,” Julian agreed, and reluctantly let go of Garak’s jacket. “You’re going to have to explain that one to me in more depth, since I clearly missed most of the point.”

“I look forward to continuing your education,” Garak said slyly, leaning in again, and this time, Julian met him halfway.

When Garak pulled back again, Julian made a soft, embarrassing noise, almost a whine, and tried to lean down for another kiss, but was denied.

“You didn’t ever guess, then?” he asked, for lack of anything else to say. “Even after Sasha…I mean, my ideal partner, and they’re a dark-haired, mysterious foreign agent with their own agenda and a tendency to call me naïve to win arguments, and you didn’t realise-” He cut himself off before he said too much, but the damage was done.

Garak would not meet Julian’s eyes. “That you were intrigued by me I knew,” he said. “I relied on that, in the beginning – you would not have come to Bajor with me if you weren’t – but as time went on…after the whole awful business of the implant…well. I am only Cardassian. And I don’t believe anyone could have lived up to the image of the Cardassian spy that drove you to burst into Ops and announce our meeting to everyone who happened to be there.”

Julian felt heat rush to his face. “I wasn’t-” he cut himself off. He _had_ been that bad. He still cringed whenever he remembered most of his first few months on Deep Space Nine. He groped for something else to say. “Would you like to join me for dinner later?” he asked instead. “After my shift’s over in the infirmary?”

Garak raised his brow-ridges. “Who am I to refuse Julian Bashir, secret agent?” he asked, still mostly teasing. “By all means, doctor. But first…” he smiled widely and stepped back, “I wasn’t joking when I said I was intrigued to see how this simulation would end.”

Julian shrugged, “Going off previous pattern, Doctor Noah will force me to choose between Honey and Sasha, I will…probably choose Sasha, I always do in the end, and then kill or disable Noah before he can activate his device and hand the whole thing over for my superiors to worry about.”

“How dull.”

Julian shrugged, “There will probably be another fight scene getting there, if that’s any more interesting.”

“Oh, I suppose, if we must.” Garak put an arm around Julian’s shoulders, the same way he had earlier. “Computer, unfreeze programme – doctor, shall we?”


End file.
